Ears
by KarotsaMused
Summary: Death, care, and crisis of faith.
1. Edgar Winthrop Hershey

A/N: Before the addition of author's notes, the fic is 1,977 words long. 33 under the limit, bi-otches!  
  
"Good Omens" and all affiliated suchlike are property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I'm using it without permission and am not making profit. Doansue!  
  
Not for the "42 Days" challenge, but inspired by it. The fic that's actually in the running is a Saiyuki vignette called "42 Days" - See how inventive I am? But this fic had to be written, and so I did it.  
  
Warnings: death and probable OOC

* * *

"Forty-two days. Forty-two bloody days."  
  
The demon Crowley stalked through the night. He usually liked stalking in darkness; it gave him a sense of pride in the uniform, so to speak. This night, though, the effect was mitigated by a low streak of royal blue curses, blessings, and various irked noises issuing from his mouth.  
  
"Not like I'm _desperate_ or anything," muttered Crowley, glaring at the ground before his feet. "But it couldn't kill him to drop a line!"  
  
Behind Crowley, cracks in the pavement jutted further toward the sky at just the right angles to catch shoes of tomorrow's pedestrian. Streetlamps sputtered and died; at certain points in Crowley's litany, the bulbs exploded from the stress. The air around Crowley seethed, steaming from his shoulders and tangling in his hair. A young lady approached him with a lurid smile, but before she came within three yards one of her stiletto heels collapsed, sending her careening into a lamppost. The yellow glow disappeared as soon as Crowley set foot within it, walking on.  
  
There were times when Crowley had gone for decades, nay, centuries without so much as hearing Aziraphale's name. He had functioned in reasonable contentment, with a few glaring exceptions, with or without Aziraphale. Even in the earlier days of the Agreement, they only met once every few years at their most frequent. Sometimes Aziraphale would send him a message detailing the wonderful little mundane practices that Aziraphale thought should appear in a letter to an acquaintance. It was just the sort of thing Aziraphale _did_. Crowley, more often than not, would slog through the pages of neat script just because it was something to do. And then, to make up for the break, he would wreak some minor havoc with the neighbor's chickens.  
  
As age gave way to age and communication became easier, more reliable, Aziraphale's correspondences grew farther and farther apart. Crowley surmised that it was because they had begun to spend more and more time in one another's company. This, of course, did not mean weekly playdates, but they met often enough and for long enough that each developed a certain understanding of the other.  
  
One of the principle points was that Crowley only really met with Aziraphale for the angel's sake. To create a backlog in the paper and pencil industries that would throw off demand figures and give quite a few economists a massive migraine. To annoy a postman who had walked all the way to Crowley's letterbox to find he had nothing to shove inside. To spare Crowley the waste of time reading those letters had really been.  
  
Crowley had not seen Aziraphale for forty-two days, and he stalked at a human's pace through the streets to build up a really good head of steam. Crowley had survived centuries without the angel, had endured months or years between the neat letters, had functioned perfectly well without a companion that acted as the conscience he wasn't supposed to have.  
  
But these past forty-two days have driven the demon Crowley to distraction. Even when he took special care to craft a _really_ bothersome bit of radio interference, Crowley could only concentrate for a few minutes. Crowley had Ears on his mind.  
  
The kitten's full name was Edgar Winthrop Hershey, out of Crowley's sense of humor, but Aziraphale had taken to calling him "Ears" for short. Aziraphale had, of course, gotten Crowley's joke, but decided not to humor the demon on this count.  
  
Ears was a tiny, white ball of fluff with one clouded blue eye. The tip of his tail was chocolate brown, but his little nose and the pads of his paws were pink. They had found him one day, huddled in a shoebox, emaciated and diseased. Aziraphale had immediately taken the kitten into his hands and into his care, and dragged an unsuspecting Crowley along for the ride.  
  
Aziraphale absolutely refused to use his heavenly powers to heal the kitten, and once Ears got his name Crowley knew the fuzz-ball would be permanently wormed into Aziraphale's welcoming heart. Crowley hadn't wanted the kitten to have a name, knowing the thing didn't have a snowball's chance in The Old Country, but Aziraphale had insisted with that cherubic, pleading look of his.  
  
Ears was christened, or cursed, depending on how one looked at it. And Crowley had gone on his way, letting Aziraphale fret over his adopted charge. That was forty-two days ago.  
  
Crowley stalked past the shop next to Aziraphale's, leering right back at those who leered at him. Crowley's looks were not lustful, but murderous. As a would-be molestor skittered off into the night, Crowley rapped impatiently on Aziraphale's door.  
  
He knew the angel would not be at his flat, knew Aziraphale had clumsily built Ears his own incubator out of a few odd bits of board, some nails, and a sunlamp. This incubator rested in the back room of the bookshop, and Crowley guessed Aziraphale hadn't spent much time out in the front.  
  
"Angel!" Crowley hissed, and the air seething around him made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Crowley said it once, and only once, listening carefully. Aziraphale wasn't asleep. Aziraphale didn't really see the need to do it more than once a week, sort of like breathing. Crowley listened and waited, clenching his fists.  
  
Finally, slowly and with a bit of a shudder, Aziraphale opened the door to the bookshop. Crowley burst inside and grabbed at the angel's collar.  
  
"I _felt_ it. Why didn't you tell me?" Crowley stared hard through his sunglasses at Aziraphale. The angel's eyes were bloodshot, his nose was red, and his lower lip trembled.  
  
"I...I'm sorry," he whimpered. That made Crowley give pause, lighten his grip. Aziraphale might at some points declare, muse, or intone, but he had never _whimpered_ in Crowley's presence. Aziraphale was continuing on, muttering, "I know I should have called you, but..."  
  
Crowley let Aziraphale go. "He made it a long time," said Crowley, and fell silent. Aziraphale straightened his collar and wrapped his arms about himself.  
  
"I know it was bound to happen sooner or later, but I always forget how absolutely _dread_ful the whole process is. I was getting some food out for him and..." Aziraphale trailed off for the second time, shaking his head.  
  
Crowley had to suppress a smile at that. Aziraphale must have really cared, to remember to feed Ears so often. The angel often forgot to feed himself. "I know it's bad. But..." Crowley stopped. He really wasn't suited to the whole comforting job and was unsure whether or not he might offend Aziraphale.  
  
Sure, Ears' death was inevitable. But he knew Aziraphale had cared for the kitten as if it might live forever under his hands. And he knew, despite his badder nature, that he wanted to know when Ears went. That was why he was at the bookshop in the first place, wasn't it? To confront Aziraphale about how lax he was in notifying Crowley. When they both knew each could feel the death as well as the other.  
  
Aziraphale was terrible when he cried. Crowley had only seen it once before, under far more dire circumstances, but he never put it past the angel to spare a tear for the unfortunate fauna in his path. The pale, angelic skin would become translucent and pink, his nose raw, his eyes reddened. He looked about to fall apart.  
  
Crowley sighed. Aziraphale could be such an absolute _sissy_ sometimes.  
  
"Hey," he said softly, bending over a bit so he could see Aziraphale's face. "Do you want me to...you know..."  
  
"No!" Aziraphale cried. Guilt flashed over his face. "I mean...you wouldn't..."  
  
Crowley shrugged. "You're right. I wouldn't. How about this, then. We let him rest in his little box for tonight and talk about how to deal with it in the morning." Crowley paused, and when Aziraphale's watery, blue eyes locked on his face, he added, "Okay?"  
  
"It couldn't hurt..."  
  
Crowley smiled as gently as he could. "Right, then." He clapped the angel's shoulder in a way he hoped conveyed comforting camaraderie, and nudged him toward one of the dusty chairs by the bookshelves, kicking the front door shut as he walked.  
  
Aziraphale plopped down and pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his shirt. Even in this state, Aziraphale was well-dressed, his collar and cuffs buttoned and pressed. Crowley gave Aziraphale's shoulders an extra little shove, forcing the angel to relax into the chair. "Sleep. No buts."  
  
And then Crowley sat down on the floor, pulled his knees up, and relaxed against hardwood shelving. Aziraphale stared at him in silence for a few moments, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.  
  
An angel asleep is the look of a human in death. Without speech, there is no need to breathe. Without consciousness, there are no vital signs of life. Crowley watched Aziraphale for a long time, and wondered what it would be like if that were true. He stopped after a while, realizing he did not like considering life without the angel, and did not like that realization.

* * *

Crowley must have fallen asleep, because when he next opened his eyes sunlight was filtering in, in yellow and brown, through the bookshop's windows. He had a terrible crick in his neck and his lower back ached from being held in one position all night, but he forced himself upright to check on Aziraphale.  
  
To make up for his earlier kindness, and to rid himself of the image of a dead angel, he shook Aziraphale awake.  
  
"Mm? Crowley? What are you...oh. Oh." Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. "I haven't...ever slept that long." He took a moment to gain his bearings, running his hand through his hair. "Crowley, I don't think I can go back there."  
  
Crowley rolled his head on his shoulders, stretching out the soreness of his neck. "If you make me do it, I dispose of him my way."  
  
Aziraphale looked about ready to burst into tears again. Crowley held up well for a few moments, but relented when the angel's lip began to tremble.  
  
"Okay. I'll go with you. I'll hold your hand if that works. But I can't possibly give someone proper religious burial rites. Not even a kitten. I'd be flayed." Crowley noticed belatedly that neither of them had yet said the animal's name. He tried it out. "Let's go see Edgar. Let's go see Ears." He grabbed Aziraphale's hand without looking for a reaction to the name, knowing already that it was a mistake.  
  
Crowley did not hold Aziraphale's hand the entire time, but he did spend the day with Aziraphale, did follow him around while he prepared a shoebox with some tissues to be Ears' final home.  
  
Once the sun went down, Crowley walked with Aziraphale to the patch of grass by the duck pond. And he blocked Aziraphale from view, used his power to make a grave, and glared murderously through his sunglasses at any passerby foolish enough to stare.  
  
Aziraphale put the shoebox into the ground, murmuring gently. His voice cracked a few times, and it was not long before the tears came again. Crowley replaced the earth while Aziraphale cried.  
  
When Aziraphale got back to his feet, Crowley walked with him, shoulder-to-shoulder, back to the bookshop.  
  
"I'll deal with the back room," he said, and when Aziraphale dutifully shook his head, Crowley stood firm. He left the angel in the dusty chair that had been Aziraphale's bed and had the back room clean in seconds.  
  
As he boiled a bit of water for tea, Crowley stared at the mug and promised himself he would commit all sorts of sins, orchestrate any manner of troubles, tempt myriad souls. Tomorrow. And Crowley brought the mug of tea out to Aziraphale to help the angel sleep again.

* * *

To understand the humor behind "Edgar Winthrop Hershey", we must do a bit of research. Edgar Allen Poe wrote "The Raven", which is black. Winthrop is the second youngest son of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., son of John D. Rockefeller, who made his fortune in oil refinery. Oil is black. Milton Hershey made his fortune in chocolate, which is dark brown. Ears is a white kitten. Ah-hahaha.  
  
I'm on a real symbolism tangent, and I hope some people picked up on some of it. I'm no Salinger, but I practice. XP 


	2. Deafness

A/N: I did it. Another chapter. Inspired partly by all those wonderful discussions in English class, and partly because the fic felt unfinished.  
  
Beta-read by Optimoose. I doubt I can live up to her standards, but I try ;)  
  
The title, if you haven't already guessed, is a terribly bad pun. Deafness is life without Ears.  
  
I'm proud of myself with this one. I really do like it, surprisingly enough, and I'm glad I managed to tie in a bit of "The Gameboard and the Hourglass" - reading that, of course, is not integral to understanding this (although having my brain might help) but this could very well be construed as one of God's helpful nudges in the right direction during game-play. Bwahaha. Comments and criticism, of course, are greatly appreciated - this thing is still most definitely open for editing.

* * *

Aziraphale awoke. This in and of itself was peculiar, because the angel rarely slept. Without consciousness, Aziraphale couldn't force his diaphragm to breathe or his heart to beat. Those systems only kicked in automatically if he engaged in strenuous activity, and this never really seemed necessary. His body stayed in well enough shape without exercise because he regularly forgot to feed himself. An unconscious Aziraphale, however, couldn't defend himself if any early would-be Samaritan chose to walk in and proclaim him dead. Then, of course, there would be a real mess where the angel would have to talk his way out of an ambulance. Or worse, a coffin.  
  
Aziraphale awoke and surveyed his surroundings. No paramedics were warming up the defibrillator; no worms were drooling in anticipation. He was in a dusty, comfortable armchair that smelt slightly of mold. A bit of the bookshelves at his side had been cleared, and on that shelf rested a mug with the room-temperature dregs of a cup of tea. He was completely alone.  
  
Aziraphale hadn't been alone for a while. Longer, in his emotional sense, than the time period really was. Crowley was gone, had obviously left a while ago with no fanfare. And Aziraphale knew, despite his direst wishes, that the back room was also empty, cleared of any remnant of the presence of a small, battered kitten.  
  
Fervently, Aziraphale wished Crowley had let him clean out his own back room. Or let him shovel the dirt over the shoebox in the park. Aziraphale had no labor for closure, no physical work to put the final point at the end of the metaphorical sentence. There wasn't even a mound in the grass to mark the grave. Crowley was terribly _impersonal_ like that.  
  
Aziraphale straightened up, shaking the dust out of his hair. Out of metaphysical habit, he sneezed. The reaction was so jarring that he gave a few extra, pathetic little sniffles and indulged in memory.  
  
Ears truly was a wonderful, unassuming little creature. There had been days when Ears had opened his one good eye to watch Aziraphale as the angel bustled around the back room, and days when Ears had been strong enough to eat on his own. Ears never mewled for attention, but sat patient and silent in waiting. Even before Aziraphale had thought to make a litterbox for him, he'd set up his own practice, a little cordoned-off area of the incubator, as soon as he'd been able to walk on his own. Ears' first dizzy, tentative steps were wonderful for Aziraphale. He'd almost called Crowley to get the demon to come and watch.  
  
Ears had been strong enough to walk for six days before he suddenly collapsed and was unable to move again. Aziraphale had stayed with him through his decline, singing to him and stroking his little body and trying to get milk into him at every time Ears was willing. Aziraphale, if he had to leave the back room, left Ears cuddled in a nest of blankets inside his incubator.  
  
Ears died when Aziraphale was out of the room, in the middle of a fevered nap.  
  
Had Aziraphale been younger, less patient, less experienced, he would question God and His Ineffability. Anger would be easy, but logic is more consuming. Aziraphale had learned it best not to ask Why but What Next. Ears had, presumably, died for a reason. God, who loved all His Little Creatures, couldn't possibly poison an innocent ball of fluff - here, Aziraphale blew his nose into his handkerchief - couldn't possibly allow the elements and circumstances to murder a perfect baby without some higher plan.  
  
Thinking slowly, so as not to incite himself to another bout of tears, Aziraphale worked from the bottom. God does not show favoritism amongst His Creations, despite what some men may think, so it couldn't be to save a colony of starving fungi below ground. Aziraphale had to stop and wipe from his mind the image of decay. He quickly got up from the moldy chair, suddenly hating the smell of it, and took a few decisive steps toward the back room before stopping. He leaned against another row of bookshelves. The issue of Love also ruled out God's wanting to torture Aziraphale. It was Aziraphale's own fault for getting so attached to the kitten, wasn't it?  
  
Unless God meant for that attachment. Aziraphale's bonding with Ears, giving him a name. But Crowley had named him, had cemented him in Aziraphale's heart and consciousness. Everything lies in the name. Crowley had given Ears his name.  
  
Edgar Winthrop Hershey. A white kitten with such a black name. That was Crowley's sense of humor, and possibly Ears' death sentence. A creature so small must have suffocated under a name like that. Yet it was obvious Crowley knew that the kitten wouldn't survive for very long, and had probably been surprised that Ears lasted as long as he had. Aziraphale himself had been surprised.  
  
Maybe Ears would have survived with a lighter name.  
  
Aziraphale clapped his hands over his mouth as if he'd spoken it. Not Crowley. He _knew_ Crowley. Crowley was the only constant face over six thousand years that wasn't draped in piety and a white robe. Crowley was...was a _demon_. An angel that had turned on God. He could turn on another angel without a second thought. Aziraphale knew some of the things Crowley had done, what Crowley's contemporaries and compatriots had devised. And if Heaven and Hell were against one another, what reason would Crowley have not to want harm to come to Aziraphale?  
  
Not all pain is an act of God. God may just have wanted Aziraphale to realize that he _was_ fraternizing with the enemy and that there was more at stake than the life of one kitten. Crowley was one of Them, a stigma blacker than Ears' full name.  
  
The demon probably laughed once he got away from the mess Aziraphale made of himself. Laughed until saline tears flowed from his disgusting serpentine eyes.  
  
Aziraphale stopped. He rather liked Crowley's eyes, on the odd occasion that he saw them. They reminded him of the Good Old Days, back when there were different rules. Easier rules. Crowley hadn't been bad company then.  
  
Crowley hadn't been bad company for the past few days, either.  
  
Crowley had stayed with him for two nights and a day. Crowley had done things for Aziraphale, probably done some of the things Aziraphale needed to do for himself. But Crowley had done them, and Aziraphale had never asked. Aziraphale hadn't even asked Crowley to come over. That was why he came in the first place. One of Them, one of The Enemy, showed such altruism and compassion, in his way.  
  
Aziraphale slid down the bookshelf, leaning his back against it and wrapping his arms about his legs. "Is that it?" he asked softly. He ran the past day over in his mind. Crowley had been uncharacteristically gentle, if strained, and understanding. Crowley had been patient. Crowley didn't have to be that way, didn't have to stay, but he did it anyway. Aziraphale had never asked him; Crowley had talked himself into it. Had Crowley cared for Ears that much, even if he'd only seen the kitten on the one day when they found him?  
  
Aziraphale put his head on his knees, unused to fighting off the heaviness of sleep and far too many hours' worth of grief. Crowley, he knew, wasn't particularly an Animal Person. Really, Crowley had come over only on the pretense of Ears' death. And then spent two nights and one day with Aziraphale. Focusing completely on Aziraphale. Protecting Aziraphale from the looks of passersby. Holding Aziraphale's hand.  
  
Crowley's face was very obvious when he was about to laugh. He'd also never really caught the hang of hiding when he'd finished. It was the aura of natural smugness that oozed from him. And Aziraphale had seen no laughter on Crowley the entire time.  
  
Crowley had come over on his own free will and spent two nights and one day caring about Aziraphale.  
  
The angel gave a bit of a shudder. "That's it, isn't it." The statement only bore the syntax of a question, nothing more. "You had to kill a kitten, a poor, defenseless _kitten_...so Crowley and I would spend more time together." He let the tears come again, slipping into frustration. "I could have healed him too, but I didn't. Was that You?"  
  
Free will is a human contrivance, the idea that mortals are in control. Aziraphale had long ago resigned himself to God's Will and his Place in the Scheme of Things. He hardly thought about it, except in times like these. He never questioned God's Plan, but was sometimes worried about his place in it. Who was to say that he wouldn't be a sacrifice as Ears had been? Desperately, Aziraphale clung to his faith and the knowledge of God's striving for a Greater Good. There had to be a goal somewhere.  
  
"I'm not...I'm not mad at You. I shouldn't be mad at You, and I refuse to be." Aziraphale considered his soggy handkerchief for a moment, and decided to let it squelch, untouched, in his breast pocket. He sniffled, burying his red nose between his knees and talking into his legs. Muffled words were broken by hiccups, but Aziraphale knew he must be intelligible to Someone, Somewhere. He had to be, or else Aziraphale had nothing.  
  
"I'm not mad," said Aziraphale. "But why, of all things, should an angel and a demon be...be... Why should Crowley care about me like that? We're on different Sides, and shouldn't You be furious about...about our spending time together anyway? I know You know about the Agreement. You'd know, or else You wouldn't be doing this. Why is it okay?"  
  
Had Aziraphale been younger, less patient, less experienced, he would have looked for some ethereal sign of God's listening ear. A vision in the floating dust made to shimmer by the sunlight. A candle spontaneously lighting. A soft, feline yowl from the back room.  
  
Nothing came.  
  
An angel sat, pressed against a bookshelf, and cried again into his knees because he could not stop himself.

* * *

God works in mysterious ways. And sometimes, because these mysteries must be meticulously crafted, their implementation takes a while.

* * *

"Pick up, pick up, pick _up_," Crowley muttered into the phone. He hoped Aziraphale could find his own telephone in whatever mess it was currently hidden. After the third ring, Aziraphale picked up. Before the angel could speak, Crowley said, "You're not going to believe this."  
  
"Crowley? My dear, it's been nearly a year! How are you?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, angel, listen to me." Crowley paused and listened for an instant to Aziraphale's waiting silence. "Aziraphale, It's happening. The Antichrist is coming to ground zero, and I'm bringing Him in three weeks."  
  
The line was silent for a long moment before Aziraphale muttered, "Oh. Oh, dear."  
  
Crowley laughed dryly. "About what I said. Hey, um. Do you want to meet somewhere and have a few drinks? Got a funny feeling we don't have much time left before the Big One and I'd like to take advantage of it."  
  
Crowley wasn't sure what came over him, but the question was already sizzling as it zipped through the phone line to Aziraphale's waiting ear. He didn't know whether he was annoyed or happy once Aziraphale responded with complete agreement. 


End file.
